I thought about going to the gym this morning. The last time I went was the 4th of July. I haven’t gained any weight, although I think what little conditioning had developed in my arms and upper body has slipped. My legs are more solid than ever though, for the same reason I eventually ruled out the gym.
This play is the most merciless one yet, physically. I got many more bruises on Much Ado, and worked up more of a sweat on The Odd Couple, but I am better at protecting myself now, and there are no 94-degree matinee performances. Plus, Renfield’s bits tend to be very compact, with rest in-between.
But the intensity and physicality I need when I AM on is brutal. On Sunday night, I was on the couch, catching up on TV after dinner, and got up to head out and meet Heather for dessert and a movie. And when I got to my feet I nearly called to cancel the date. It’s not pain – it’s exhaustion. Four consecutive days of performing leave me so physically tired that all I want to do is lay around, either sleeping or in a warm tub. I haven’t even done WiiFit yoga for two weeks.
By Wednesdays, though, I’m close to human again; and last night I was settled in bed early enough that I could have moved up the alarm by an hour and gone out before work this morning. I am sure it would have felt good to be sweating again.
But given how many months have passed, I quailed at the thought of carrying ANY post-workout soreness into the weekend. I just don’t think I can afford it. I know it doesn’t speak well for my overall fitness that I need three days to recover from four days of performing, but after Sunday I was prowling for some prescription painkillers to borrow, and I know it’s going to be just as rough this Sunday; and the next Sunday.
I should give myself credit that this is also due to having to fit this activity around a full-time job, and that even though I have shed all other exercise, I am still taking my twice-daily walks. I have even extended their length. But it still worried me, when I talked myself out of a return to the elliptical, that there was the slightest chance that the old, sloth-y me was the one ultimately winning the argument.